The love-philtre
by maroucia
Summary: Sansa and Sandor both accidentally drink from a wineskin containing a love-philtre. GOT AU where Sansa is aged-up. Beta-ed by Wildsky Sheri
1. Chapter 1

_Here's a new fic inspired by a Maracuyakongeen prompt from last summer's comment fic. She has filled it herself lately with her very funny 'The pyromancer potion' and here's my take on it. I hope you'll all enjoy!_

**Eddard**

Eddard was bowed over a pile of documents, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. The small headache that had shyly started tickling his brow a couple of hours ago was now getting increasingly hard to ignore, still he couldn't put his work aside just yet. His overview of the realm's finances was far from over and with every new parchment he unrolled, he stumbled over more and more disquieting irregularities. Were the Seven Kingdoms so badly governed that mistakes were that common in paperwork or were there people voluntarily perpetrating them for their own benefit? And how long had it gone on like this? Finding answers to these questions would be crucial in the moons to come but the scale of the effort it would require was both mind-blowing and discouraging.

Sighing, Ned braced his back and looked out the window. It was well past noon by now and he hadn't had a bite since dawn. He could send a servant to fetch him some food but the prospect of going to the kitchen himself and stretching his legs at the same time greatly appealed to him. It was true that taking a small walk would delay him in his work but it would also help increase his concentration when he returned and thus, in the long run, render him more efficient and allow him to save time.

His decision made, Eddard left his solar and went through the long corridor that led to the stairs. On his way, he saw Sansa sitting by a window and practicing her scales on the new high harp he had gotten her on her last name day. At seeing him, she grinned sweetly without halting in her exercise but Ned only managed a faint, little smile in return. While he felt guilty for his lack of warmth, he simply had no energy left for his daughters these days and sadly, there was no way he could change the situation as long as he was Hand of the King. His family couldn't come first when the realm's wellbeing was at stake after all, no matter how much it pained him.

In only a few minutes, Ned descended the stairs, crossed the Small Hall and exited the Tower of the Hand. It was a beautiful, cool and breezy day outside and as soon as he got out, he itched to go for a long stroll in the city - no matter how dirty and noisy its narrow streets could be – however it would be impossible if he truly wished to complete the tasks he had assigned himself before dusk came. Sighing in resignation, Ned entered through the kitchen's open door and looked around him. The place was empty of any cooks or scullery maids but being used to eating at odd hours, he knew exactly where he was going and headed for the larder where the salted meats and cheeses were kept. Inside, he found a long dried sausage and a piece of soft cheese that would do perfectly and from a long working table not far away, he picked up a loaf of bread that still remained from the previous meal. As he was searching for some linen he might use to carry his food, Eddard considered the idea of eating outside instead of going straight to his solar. There was no denying that he was highly tempted. His work was important, yes, but there was no reason he couldn't have lunch in peace every now and then.

"My lord Hand!" the agitated voice of a man interrupted Ned's train of thought just as he had found what he was looking for.

Turning toward the sound, he saw a small man with a white beard scurrying in his direction. Judging by his garb, he was probably one of the few pyromancers that still resided at the Red Keep.

"Have you seen a wineskin? I left it there on the bread table earlier today," the man asked, totally out of breath while pointing at an empty spot next to the few loaves that still remained.

"No, I didn't. But why should you be so upset about your loss? There is plenty of wine to be had in the cellar."

"Oh but, my lord! That wasn't just _any_ sort of wine in that skin…" he began in a queer mix of enthusiasm and awe, before halting when he saw the other man's expression sour.

"What have you put inside?" Eddard asked warily, unable to keep the newborn irritation he felt from showing in his voice. "Is someone in danger?"

Eyes grown wide, the pyromancer shook his head with a little too much ardour. "Oh no! Not in _danger_, my lord! Don't you worry," he insisted. Then, mouth pulling into a forced smile, he added, "It's only a ... _philtre_ I've concocted, an experiment I may very well have succeeded in-"

"_An_ _experiment_?" Ned repeated, both taken aback and horrified. "Why by the old gods would you put the product of your _experiment_ - as you call it - in a wineskin and leave it in the kitchens of all places? Couldn't you surmise that someone might mistake it for wine?" Ned snapped disbelievingly, forgetting himself for an instant. He had never liked those pyromancers; they were a vestige of another era and it was a true wonder that Robert hadn't eradicated their guild a long time ago.

"I didn't leave the wineskin intentionally, of course!" the pyromancer hurriedly retorted. "I forgot it an hour ago, when I came to fetch myself some lunch. I went to my laboratory afterwards with my food and sadly only realised my neglect once I was done eating. I ran here as soon as I could but it appears that it's too late already..."

Passing a hand through his hair, Ned shook his head in despair. He had other things to do and plenty at that! Yet, who was to say what sort of poison the pyromancer had hidden in his wineskin? "What is this potion of yours supposed to do?" he asked more calmly, all the while distractedly looking out the window and trying to figure out how he should deal with the situation.

"It's a... ah... love-philtre, my lord," the pyromancer murmured, lowering his head as if he was expecting a blow.

"A _love-philtre_? By the gods!" Ned exclaimed, incredulous. "What does it have to do with fire? I've always heard that was all your guild has ever cared about."

"Well although fire is our main subject of study, we are still allowed to research other subjects on the side, Lord Hand," the small man explained, obviously relieved that his revelation had not triggered the ire he had feared.

"I see," Ned replied absentmindedly.

While he couldn't bring himself to believe in something as absurd as a _love-philtre_, Eddard couldn't disregard the possibility that the pyromancer's concoction might be poisonous - no matter what the man pretended. As much as it pained him, resuming his overview would prove impossible today and he would need to let the documents pile up on his desk a little longer. For now, the priority was to find whoever had drunk the wineskin's contents and pray that no ill had taken them yet.

* * *

"Bring me more wine. And some of that Myrish cheese I ate earlier as well," the king was asking one of his footmen.

Bowing politely, the servant immediately left while another bent discreetly from behind Robert to refill his tankard with what wine still remained. Grunting with satisfaction, the latter gulped thirstily at his beverage.

Once he had had his fill, the king turned in his armchair to eye Ser Barristan Selmy. "Perhaps we should call the rest of your fellow Kingsguards, Barristan," he began with unhidden mirth. "If any of them has drunk the philtre, we'll see then whether duty or love has more value in his eyes!" he roared, laughing heartily at his own jape.

A weak, tired smile curving his lips, Ned glanced at his old friend from the modest throne he was installed in. Robert was sitting in a regular cushion chair by his side and although Ned had insisted that he take the throne, the king had refused, arguing that they were in the Hand's Small Hall and that even with his status as head of the realm, he had no right to occupy the place.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Your Grace," Ser Barristan replied, visibly ill-at-ease at the king's implication. "At the time the _incident_ took place, those of my brothers that weren't on duty were at a meeting with me in the Round Room. Thus none could have been to the kitchens."

"Mmm, oh well, we could ask Jory to fetch a few of the noblemen and women instead," the king proposed.

The young Northerner jumped slightly at being named and gave a nod to confirm his willingness to follow whatever orders he might be given.

"This is going to get trickier though," Robert supposed, raising concerned eyes toward his friend. "Those proud bastards won't appreciate being dragged over here to be interrogated in the least."

"I'm afraid you're right, Your Grace," Eddard muttered flatly, all the while trying to find a strategic way they could proceed.

They had already interviewed every handmaiden, cook, footman, or whatever other servants the Red Keep contained, without result. All the goldcloaks that had been off duty around noon had also been brought in for questioning but none of them had taken a wineskin from the bread table. Logic demanded that they now called the nobles but it was obvious the latter would react more poorly than their retainers had. Ned glanced out the window; it was already well dark. What time was it exactly? he wondered, discouraged.

"Adelardus? I just thought of something," the king suddenly told the pyromancer, jerking his head to look at him. "What will happen if more than two people have drunk your potion?" His eyes were shining with curiosity. Unlike him, Robert obviously enjoyed every second of the enquiry.

Albeit Ned hadn't planned on informing the king of such a small matter. Their paths had crossed by chance in an alley not long after his meeting with the pyromancer. When Robert had heard about that alleged _love potion_, he had been so amused that he had insisted that he help with the interrogations. The idea that he would be so interested by a wholly_ insignificant _concern while there were hundreds of infinitely more pressing things to be dealt with was more than slightly infuriating to Ned but he knew well enough that complaining wouldn't lead anywhere.

"Your Grace, if I may, the philtre is meant only for two persons," the pyromancer began, bowing low from where he stood at the king's side. "Only the two first to have drunk it will know any effect."

"Interesting," Robert muttered, scratching his beard.

Without meaning it, Ned sighed audibly. He rarely showed contempt for anyone but today, he found it increasingly difficult to control himself. "How can you know all these details about your concoction's effects? Most of all, how can you even be sure it works?"

His hands nervously clasped before his chest, Adelardus quickly started explaining himself. "I have given small doses to a variety of animals. In all cases, after having drunk the philtre, the said creatures have… have… " he suddenly hesitated, apparently unsure of how he should phrase his thoughts. Then, gulping, he resumed: "They have constantly copulated."

At that, the king's booming laughter resounded in the Small Hall. "And have they not stopped since then?" he managed to breathe after a few long seconds, tears pearling in his eyes.

Gazing at the king, the pyromancer chanced a small shy smile but he promptly regained his dismayed expression when his eyes darted to Ned and he saw the depth of his frown. "N… no, Your Grace," he replied, staring at his feet. "Some have already bred a few litters-"

"Oh, this is too good!" Robert roared, laughing even louder. "Can you imagine that, Ned? This is the most hilarious event to ever happen in the Red Keep since the beginning of my reign! It's even more perfect now that we know one of our _very dignified_ nobles will most likely fall victim to this potion."

"Myself, I have to admit that I'm not very amused," Ned spat darkly. "Besides, I don't believe in _love-philtres_ or any similar trickery."

"Then why are we here, Ned?" the king asked, visibly puzzled.

"Because I fear this charlatan might have poisoned someone!" Eddard answered a little too roughly, pointing at the pyromancer. He immediately regretted his outburst but with the throbbing nightmare his headache had become, it was getting increasingly hard to control his temper. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, forget it, Ned. I didn't come all the way to Winterfell to ask you to become my Hand so that you would pour honey in my ears. We'll find out soon enough who has drunk the potion anyway and see if the pyromancer is telling the truth then." Furrowing his brows, he added, "Don't you think the reaction of the animals Adelardus has tested is revealing though?"

"Animals don't need any medicine to couple, Your Grace," Eddard countered.

"That's true enough," the king admitted, apparently annoyed at the notion that the elixir might not have its presumed effect. "Oh well," he exhaled after a moment, rubbing his hands together. "We still need to continue our inquiry, don't we? Who should we ask Jory to fetch this time?"

Ned was far from certain but he was nonetheless about to chance a few names when the outside door abruptly slammed open. Every eye in the room darted toward the threshold to see Sandor Clegane enter, shortly followed by a terrified looking footman carrying the wine the king had demanded earlier. Ned's frown deepened at the sight; there was no love lost between him and the Lannister's dog.

"Your Grace, I've been told you were here by your footman," the scarred warrior rasped in that very specific hoarse voice of his. "The Queen wants to have a word with you and has asked me to seek you."

At that, the king let out an annoyed growl. "What does that woman want now?" he complained to himself but then, his expression changed and he laid interested eyes on his son's sworn shield. "Clegane, come closer, will you? The Lord Hand and I are presently carrying on an investigation and while you're here with us, I think it would be foolish if we didn't take the time to ask you a few questions also." Robert gazed at him expectedly, drinking a long gulp from his tankard.

"As you wish, Your Grace," the Hound replied, clearly on his guard. Still, he did as he was bid and walked toward them at an unhurried pace.

Once he was standing before him, Ned sighed and began. "Did you go to the kitchens around midday?" he demanded dryly.

"I did but I don't see why there should be any problem with that. I'm entitled to eat, I should think," the man grunted a little too roughly for Eddard's liking.

Still, he kept the thought to himself and continued. "And did you perchance drink from a wineskin that had been left on the bread table?"

At hearing the question, Sandor Clegane's face twisted into a perplexed scowl. "Aye," he answered with some hesitance after a couple of seconds. "Was it really that important that you need to question half the castle about it? The wine wasn't really that good anyhow. Had a strange taste."

The Hound had not finished his sentence before Robert choked on his wine. "You! You, Clegane! The _last_ person I would have pictured! Imagine that, Ned!" he exclaimed between fits of coughing and laughter.

"What's so bloody funny?" the Hound snapped angrily just as soon. "What the hells did I drink?"

Seeing how the king could hardly catch his breath, Eddard took over. "The pyromancer Adelardus here has left a… a _potion_ on the bread table around noon and you have apparently been the one to drink it."

"A potion? What sort of _potion_?" Sandor Clegane hissed between gritted teeth, taking a step toward the pyromancer. While he had not raised his voice, his stance and burning glare made it very clear that rage was boiling under the surface.

Shrinking at least a few inches, the little man tried to back away but the king was too near and he was forced to stay in place.

"Speak, Adelardus," Ned ordered, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"It was a… a love-philtre," he whispered, eyes glued to the floor and hands folded in a trembling mass of fingers.

"_A love-philtre_," Sandor Clegane repeated, making the words sound like curses. The burnt corner of his mouth was twitching and his eyes were gleaming so menacingly that even Ned felt slightly bad for the smaller man. "What by the fucking Stranger is that supposed to mean? Uh?!"

"Well, it's a love-philtre, ser! The name says it pretty clearly-"

"I'm no fucking ser! And no, I don't bloody understand. Explain!" The king's muffled chuckle could be heard in the background and the Hound glanced his way, evidently irritated at being the butt of the joke, still he quickly fixed his stare on Adelardus again.

"If anyone other than you has drunk from the philtre… then… you and that person will be… madly in love." With every word the pyromancer said, Sandor Clegane's expression became more wrathful and the little man flinched at the sight. "But if you have been the only one to consume the concoction, there will be no effect!" he hurriedly added. "Was it still full when you drunk it? And did you leave it empty?"

Adelardus' suggestion seemed to calm the Hound very slightly and he paused to consider what he had told him. "I drank it all," he rasped after a moment. "It wasn't good, but I was thirsty. It wasn't full when I took it though. It was missing at least a glass."

"Oh," the pyromancer let out, dejected. "Then you'll be… in love with the other person. And they with you."

"_They_? What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"Well, se… my lord, contrary to what most believe, sexes have naught to do with love. There is no reason the other person couldn't be a-"

In less than an eye blink, Sandor Clegane had run to Adelardus and grabbed him by the collar. The small man squeaked and both Ser Barristan and Jory rushed to protect him but the Hound turned his back to one and pushed the other aside while raising the pyromancer off the floor.

"Are you implying that I might be in buggering _love_ with a bloody man? Are you truly telling me _that_?!" he yelled in Adelardus' face.

"But you wouldn't mind it, my lord!" the pyromancer justified, his voice quivering with fright. "That's the whole point of the philtre! Once you laid eyes on him, you'll love-"

"Will you shut that _buggering mouth_ of yours or do I need to crush your ugly head against the stone wall to silence you?" the Hound snarled, violently shaking Adelardus.

Both Ser Barristan and Jory were trying to get to him but the Hound kept turning and moving away, shoving them with his free arm and elbow. In the corner of the hall, the king's two footmen were following the spectacle with wide eyes, seemingly torn between excitement and unease at witnessing such an event.

_This needs to stop,_ Ned mused once his surprise had faded. No matter how much Sandor Clegane was entitled to his rage, he couldn't let him execute his threat. With that in mind, Eddard opened his mouth to shout an order, however at the same instant, the inner door of the hall opened, which was certainly strange considering that solely members of the Hand's household could come that way. His gaze flying to the door, Ned raised an eyebrow at seeing Sansa standing motionless in the threshold.

"Oh!" she exclaimed at beholding the scene she had interrupted. When they heard her cry, every man in the hall froze to stare her way and the young girl seemed totally petrified at becoming the centre of attention of such a dissolute party. "Father," she whispered after a long and awkward moment. "I didn't mean to disturb you but…" she trailed off, falling silent.

"What is it, Sansa?" Eddard asked more irritably than he usually liked to be with his children.

Impatiently, he gazed at her, waiting for an explanation, but he quickly realised something was amiss by the bewildered look she wore. Her mouth was open as if in shock and she was staring at something before him, her utmost attention grasped. In an eye blink, Ned's annoyance morphed into concern and he followed her gaze with his, his bemusement only increasing when it landed on none other than Sandor Clegane. Fixing her with a gaze of the same dumb intensity, the man dropped the pyromancer to the floor at the same instant – just as if he had completely forgotten he had been clutching at his collar – and took a step over his squirming and moaning body to slowly walk toward Sansa.

Hastily, Eddard jumped from his throne to interpose himself between her and the Hound. Once he reached her, his heart skipped a beat as an idea suddenly struck him, cold fear shrouding his mind. "Sansa?" he asked, seizing her by the shoulders. "Have you been to the kitchens today?"

"Y… yes, father," she answered, glancing his way but shortly jerking her head to peer behind him. "Why?"

"Have you drunk from a wineskin that was left on the bread table?" he demanded urgently, lowering his face to hers in an attempt to catch her gaze.

The stratagem worked although she seemed very distracted - almost _nervous_ in some queer sort of way. "I… I did, Father. But I thought it was sweet wine and after a few sips I realised it was far too bitter and threw out the contents of my glass," she explained, her eyes darting from his as soon as she had finished.

"Oh gods…" Ned sighed in total despair, glancing at the ceiling. He still didn't want to believe in the pyromancer's philtre and yet, as he glanced behind him and saw Sandor Clegane's large shape standing as immobile as a statue, he dreaded that he might have been wrong after all. "Jory, take her to her room, please," he murmured wearily.

"Of course, Lord Stark," the Northerner promptly answered, visibly ill-at-ease. Quickly he walked to Sansa and laid a hand on her upper arm. "Come, Lady Sansa. It's getting late."

The girl gave a small nod and let him lead her to the stairs, yet she kept obsessively turning to peek behind her. The Hound wasn't much better; he was openly staring at her and even went so far as to take another step forward as Sansa left the Small Hall but Ser Barristan grasped him by the arm and stopped him.

Once the door was shut, Eddard let out a long and deep sigh and spread both his hands over the sides of his face, massaging his scalp with his fingers. His head felt as if it was about to explode at any instant.

"Well, Ned, at least we found them," Robert hazarded after a few long, awkward seconds of silence. Leaving his armchair, he walked to his friend. "Adelardus will surely find an antidote to his philtre very soon. Am I right?" he asked, looking at the small man with commanding eyes.

"I'm not sure that…" the pyromancer began but at seeing all the frowns he got, he corrected. "Oh, yes, of course, Your Grace. I will."

"It's settled then," the king concluded a little too cheerfully, heading toward the Hound. The corners of his mouth were tense as if he was fighting not to grin, still he managed to keep a blank expression and Ned appreciated the effort. "Clegane can be trusted to master himself. Am I right? You're a headstrong man. You won't be bothering that young lady until our friend here, Adelardus, has found a cure for this _potion_, won't you, Clegane?"

A hush fell over the Small Hall as everyone in the room laid eyes on the tall, scarred warrior, holding their breath as they waited to hear his response.

"Aye," the Hound rasped very unconvincingly after an endless moment.

"All is fine then," the king roared, slapping Sandor Clegane on the back.

Ned wasn't persuaded in _the least_, still he grunted his approval and took his leave an instant later, adamant about not leaving it as it was.


	2. Chapter 2

_Second one is up! I hope you'll all like it! :)_

**Sansa**

Sansa was in her room, running a brush through her already untangled hair, all the while humming a love song she had very recently learned. The melody was so exquisite and the lyrics were so much more moving than any other she had ever heard that she had never been able to stop tears from pearling in her eyes whenever she sang it. Yet this morning, she felt the music more acutely than she had ever had before. It was unsettling but at the same time, oh so exhilarating.

In a sudden rush of overpowering emotion, she rose from her armchair and strode to her bed, letting herself fall onto her back over the covers. What were those queer sensations that kept rising from her belly and spreading all over her body? And how could she possibly feel them thinking of… _him_?

"Sansa!" a whiny voice abruptly interrupted her daydream. "Is it true? Is what I heard _really_ true?" Arya asked, storming through the ajar door.

Sansa's younger sister was dressed in her abominable worn out breeches and tunic and the young girl wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sight. If only Mother had forced her to leave those horrid clothes at Winterfell. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, sitting at the edge of her bed and rearranging her hair.

"All the servants are talking about it! You drank a potion and now you're in love with _the Hound_!" she almost screamed, her face twisted in both distaste and horror.

"It's not true!" Sansa retorted, feeling her lips pull uncontrollably into a smile and her cheeks colour.

"Oh, yeah? So then, why are you grinning?" her sister asked, settling her hands over her hips.

"Because you're stupid!" Sansa replied, raising her chin proudly.

"I am _not_!" Arya exclaimed angrily. Then, she calmed herself slightly and continued, glaring at her sister. "I heard all kind of stories when I went to the kitchens. I hope they're untrue, still I saw father come to your room this morning so I know something is up. If all the servants are lying, _why_ did he come then, tell me?" she demanded impatiently.

"It's not your business," Sansa snapped, folding her arms over her chest and turning her head around to close the conversation.

Arya understood the meaning of the gestures and left immediately, yet her displeasure was made more than clear by the way she slammed the door behind her.

From the moment she was alone, Sansa sighed in relief and let herself fall onto her featherbed again. _So it's really true then,_ she mused, hands spread over her fluttering heart. Jeyne had told her earlier today about a magic potion every servant was gossiping about but she had been unsure she should believe in such a silly notion. Now though, as the evidence was piling up, she was starting to accept the rumour as authentic. Besides, she could feel herself that something totally beyond her control was at work in the depths of her core and soul. From the instant she had laid eyes on the Hound yesterday, it was as if she had been struck by thunder and everything had changed for her in the blink of an eye. She had never even dared dream that the sight of anyone could cause such turmoil in her. The mere memory of those dark, grey eyes staring at her with the same amazed and yet desperate passion she felt was enough to make her skin prickle all over and warmth pool in her belly. She had been bewitched but she _loved it_, oh yes she did…

Earlier this morning, Father had come to visit her in her room. Without a single word of greeting, he had entered and shut the door behind him before sitting at the edge of her featherbed. His face had been taut from an evident lack of sleep and his expression had been so stern that Sansa had stiffened in her armchair, certain that he had come to chide her. For a few long and uncomfortable seconds he had stayed there, silently watching her while seemingly not really seeing her but then he had sighed and his features had softened faintly.

"Sansa," he had begun before hesitating for an instant. "There have been some… _developments_ that… that require you to be careful in the days to come." Father's face had wrinkled at that as if the words had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"What is it, Father? What happened?" Sansa had quickly inquired, genuinely curious. That something special had transpired yesterday when she had interrupted the commotion in the Small Hall had been obvious but nobody had yet told her about the potion at that moment and she had been left clueless and hopelessly hoping for an explanation for the queer agitation she felt.

At hearing her question, Father's mouth had pulled into a frown and his eyes had taken on an irritated gleam. "I'm not sure exactly either, Sansa," he had muttered, looking away and clearing his throat. "All I know is that you'll have to watch yourself from now on. I won't allow you to go anywhere outside the Hand's Tower by yourself anymore."

"But, Father! I can't always stay in here! The garden is so beautiful these days! I-"

"You'll still be allowed to go, only not _alone_," he had countered, raising his voice slightly. Then, laying severe eyes on her he had added, "Most of all though, Sansa, you need to _stay_ _away _from that man, Sandor Clegane. I don't want you to go _anywhere_ near him."

Her eyes grown wide, Sansa had felt her mouth open in shock. "But Father! Why such a demand?" she had asked, her whole face blushing at the mention of the name that had so oddly obsessed her all through the night. "What wrong has the Hound done that you would warn me so?" Of their own accord, her lips had curled into a small and absurdly _guilty_ smile. Why should she feel guilty? She had done naught wrong!

Father had frowned at seeing her expression and an infuriated spark had passed through his eyes. "Sansa! I don't need to give you _any_ explanation. Just do as I bid and don't ask any more questions!" he had ordered so strictly that she had flinched and been actually frightened for the space of an instant.

The moment didn't last though, for Father quickly lost some of the tension of his face and regained his usual calm demeanour. "I know you did nothing wrong, Sansa, and I'm not punishing you - no matter how it seems to you," he had began in a soft but weary voice. "I just want what's best for you and for that reason, there are some things that are best kept from you. For now, just listen to what I tell you and _stay away from that man._ Can I count on you?"

Subdued, Sansa had nodded sadly, unsure why she felt so dejected at the prospect of being forbidden to see someone she had never spent any time with in the past anyhow. She was still melancholic now as she remembered the conversation she had shared with her lord father but at least everything was starting to make sense.

_I'm in love with him, _she reflected, the words so strange and exhilarating at once. The idea was beyond illogical though; she didn't even really know him after all! Her feelings for Sandor Clegane were the work of a magic which she couldn't even start to fathom. _And yet, we both drank the philtre, _Sansa mused, the speed of her pulse increasing at the implication. _The Hound_ _is in love with me also! _she reminded herself, closing her eyes and letting out a deep, shivering sigh.

Why had she never noticed how perfectly muscled he was? And why had she not been taken by the deep intensity of his grey eyes before and more impressed by the way he overshadowed every man that surrounded him with his uncommon height? Prior to the potion, she had barely been able to glance at his scars and been so terribly frightened by the rage that boiled within him that she had trembled anytime she stumbled into him. However, while she still found everything about him terribly daunting, his ferocity had gained an oddly thrilling flavour. She longed to bask in the contradictory sensations he triggered in her and to share his strength. _All those changes in me and yet, we have barely met since the philtre…_ When would she get a chance to see Sandor Clegane again? The mere question brought tears to her eyes. Father had been incontestably clear in his instructions. She couldn't disobey him! At least as Joffrey's nameday tourney was coming shortly, she would get to admire his prowess in less than a sennight but that wouldn't be enough. Still, she had no other option and would need to content herself with the fleeting glances they would exchange.

"Sansa, how are you, my child?" Septa Mordane's voice came from the threshold.

Embarrassed at being surprised lying on her featherbed in the middle of the afternoon, Sansa hurriedly sat up. "Oh, all is fine, Septa Mordane."

"Are you certain? If you'd like, I could call for a handmaiden to help you undress. You perhaps need some sleep," the old woman proposed with evident worry. Had Father spoken to her?

"No, I'm not tired. If anything, I need some fresh air and to stretch my legs. Mayhap we could go to the Sept together?" Sansa chanced. She couldn't stop herself from hoping that they might encounter the Hound on their way and felt instantly remorseful for her dishonesty. _Septa Mordane will most_ _likely see right through me and refuse anyhow,_ Sansa predicted just as soon.

Yet, the old septa smiled kindly and nodded. "That's an excellent idea, Sansa. A lady should worship at least once a day."

The girl had to bite her lip not to smile too much at hearing the woman's response. "Yes, of course," she said, standing from her featherbed.

After having fixed her messed-up hair before the large mirror that adorned the wall, Sansa followed Septa Mordane outside her chamber, her cheeks burning from the shame she felt at hiding her true motive. It wasn't like her to deceive people and she didn't enjoy doing it in the least. Still in truth, there was naught wrong in what she was doing. If they stumbled into the Hound on their way, it wouldn't be her fault after all. Anyway, the chances that they would weren't very high. _Although, we'll pass by the yard… _Mayhap he'd be there, practicing his fighting skills?

They walked down the stairs, Septa Mordane asking Sansa about her progress with the high harp and the girl telling her how she loved the instrument. She was distracted though and when they finally left the tower and walked along the long balcony that passed over the yard, she couldn't stop her stare from wandering down in search of Sandor Clegane. A group of men were fighting and in their mist, she rapidly discerned the one she had been hoping to see. Towering over them all, the Hound was standing a little behind, apparently resting from a previous encounter. Sansa gasped at the view and halted in her tracks to lay her hands over the railing – the old septa all but forgotten. As if he had been waiting for her to appear, Sandor Clegane's gaze darted to her almost instantly and the man took a step forward, craning his neck. _I love him,_ Sansa thought as their eyes locked. He seemed just as captivated as her with his narrowed, gleaming eyes, slightly opened mouth and heaving chest.

The Hound was exactly as she remembered from the previous night in the Small Hall: tall, dark, muscular and so incredibly fearsome. Her heart was fluttering in her ribcage like some restless butterfly begging to be freed and her knees were becoming so weak she dreaded that they might give out from under her. Sansa had never known what love was before, she realised and would certainly never live through anything similar with anyone else in the many years she had to come.

"Sansa!" Septa Mordane exclaimed in obvious shock. "You shouldn't be staring at this… at _these_ _men_!"

"Oh! I'm sorry! I-"

"Come now. Let's go," the old woman scolded, seizing her by the arm and dragging her away. "Didn't your lord father tell you not to… _engage_ with any baseborn retainer?"

"I wasn't! I was only…" Sansa trailed off, well aware of how useless any explanation would be.

Father had told the septa about the potion, there was no doubting it now. She barely managed not to weep at the thought of her love being known and regarded so poorly by everyone she knew. That love-philtre was a real curse indeed. She was now in love with a man she would never get to see. How would she ever manage to carry on like this? she wondered, a single tear running down her cheek.

**Sandor**

The practice had gone alright, although Sandor hadn't been very attentive and had let his opponents hit him more often than he usually did. It wasn't like him to be so careless when it came to battle but he hadn't been able to keep himself from being troubled by invasive and overpowering thoughts he clearly had no control over._ You buggering old, foolish dog,_ he had relentlessly repeated to himself whenever her face formed in his mind.

When at last he had realised there was no chance that he would regain his accustomed concentration, Sandor had sighed in despair, removed his helm and tossed it to the ground. As he had wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, his mouth had given a few violent twitches, revealing to anyone attentive enough how exasperated he was with himself for being so bloody weak. How could a mere beverage affect him so? he had wondered, outraged. Sandor didn't believe in _magic_ any more than he did White Walkers or those bloody dragons the songs were filled with and the idea that his body and soul could disagree so much with his mind was utterly annoying to him. _Perhaps I'm slowly going mad_, he had mused while grabbing his helm from the dirt floor. _What I need is some wine – a whole lot of it even. And perhaps a whore too. _Suddenly determined, Sandor had clenched his jaw and begun heading for the door but he had not made it two steps when he felt some sort of a presence – _her_ presence – and brusquely stopped, his plans instantly forgotten.

As if guided by some bloody instinct, his eyes found her in less than a heartbeat, gazing down at him from the balcony that surrounded the yard. The little bird: so delicate and graceful, as fresh as a spring morning and pure as the clear waters of her native North. How Sandor had wanted her at that moment. He had been about to run to the stairs and join her when that old hag she had for septa had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.

And now here he was, left alone in a crowd of men, desperately staring at the emptiness where she had stood instants before, all the while reliving those few brief seconds he had been allowed to admire her perfection and feeling more lost than he had in a very long time.

"Sandor?" an unpleasant, smug voice suddenly asked, bringing him back to the present moment. "Please don't tell me that ridiculous rumour is not just a load of bullshit."

Jerking his head aside, Sandor laid irritated eyes on the Kingslayer. The blond bastard was gazing at him with a queer mix of contempt, disbelief and delight.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sandor hissed, giving him the most threatening look he could muster.

"Seven Hells, but it _is_ true!" Jaime Lannister let out in an astounded whisper before bursting into short, muffled laughter. Once he had calmed himself he added in an undertone; "The infamous and feared Hound, _in love_ with our noble Hand's sweet and highbornmaidendaughter. How absurd but oh, how _amusing_ it is."

"Shut your buggering mouth, Kingslayer!" Sandor raged, bringing his face close to the other man's.

While Jaime took a precautionary step back, he didn't appear disconcerted in the least and only began to snigger. "I wish you luck with your love affair, dog! You'll need a lot of it; that father she has won't make it easy for you lovebirds," the bugger murmured through his wide grin.

"Go fuck yourself, Kingslayer," Sandor snarled as he stalked away.

"Hey! Don't take it like that!" Jaime protested in a hushed tone, following him to the door. "Perhaps you won't believe it but I'm on your side. I have sympathy for forbidden loves, you know."

Sandor barely listened to him. The idea that everyone in the Red Keep knew about his _feelings_ infuriated him no end. _Bloody philtre,_ he cursed inwardly as he strode through the had not wanted _any_ of this.

Although, there was no denying he had desired the girl before. If truth be told, he had lusted for her from the very first time he had set eyes on her. Still, as she was Joffrey's bloody _betrothed_ and had always been so obviously scared of him, Sandor had learned to live with his abject longing a long time ago. He had never harboured a shadow of hope that his need may be fulfilled in any way that didn't have to do with his hand fisted around his cock.

Things were different now though. He didn't just want her physically; something had changed in the very bottom of his soul and he seemingly couldn't think of her without feeling his heart beat a little faster. True, fucking her was still very much on his mind, yet Sandor now also yearned for a whole set of other things he would never have believed he might one day come to wish for. Why should he care so much about protecting a highborn maiden that clearly didn't need his help? And why should he want to spend every fucking minute of his life with anyone at all? Sandor had cursed himself over these questions all through the previous night and while it was still a buggering wonder to him, he now found it didn't bother him half as much.

Sandor had noticed how the little bird had looked at him yesterday, of course, but he had discarded the memory as some stupid fantasy as soon as he had left the Small Hall – no matter what that ludicrous pyromancer's potion was supposed to do. A maiden as perfect as Sansa Stark could never fall infucking_ love _with the likes of him. That was what he had continuously repeated to himself from dusk to dawn - and even after - but he wasn't so sure anymore.

After having seen those shining blue eyes gaze at him so imploringly from the balcony minutes ago, he couldn't refrain from truly believing the passion he felt was indeed mutual. The little bird had drunk the philtre same as he had, after all. _Too bad the rest of Westeros won't want this as well,_ Sandor mused as he neared his room. Yet, he had never given a rat's arse about what anyone cared in the past, so why should he now? He snorted at that. He didn't, evidently.

He would get her _no matter what_, and bugger every last bloody person who'd try to stop him. Sansa Stark would become his and the sooner, the better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eddard**

Eddard was striding through the corridor that led to the King's solar, his mind spinning from being so preoccupied these days. Naught had gone as planned since he had left Winterfell but through the past sennight, the situation had considerably worsened. _That damned pyromancer, _Ned thought before sighing in despair. That _philtre_ had seemed nothing but a fraud when he had first heard about it, a mixture more likely to be poisonous than anything else. Now though, it pained him to admit that he was starting to truly believe in its efficacy. Having seen Sansa's reaction in the Small Hall and especially how her eyes sparkled anytime _that man_'s name was spoken, Eddard couldn't possibly continue denying the obvious. His daughter was a sweet, genteel and romantic creature and she would otherwise certainly never have had any interest in a man as coarse, disfigured and vile as Sandor Clegane.

_Sandor Clegane._ The mere mention of the name made Ned shudder. He had never been fond of the infamous warrior but his disposition toward him had previously been one of dislike and nothing more. It was very different though now that his young and innocent daughter was giddier than he had ever seen her before – even more so than at learning about her betrothal to Joffrey, which was no small thing – and all because of that brute. She tried to keep a straight face when he was around, still Ned had noticed how she sometimes couldn't stop herself from grinning and singing while wandering around the Hand's tower. Yet, there were other times when her melancholy was so thick he could sense it by merely glimpsing her way. Eddard was no erudite when it came to young maidens and their feelings but one didn't need to be to realise what was going on. She was in love with the Hound and by the old gods, the notion was infinitely worrying. He trusted Sansa to obey his orders and keep her distance but who was to say what that beast of a man would do if he ever found her alone? _It won't happen,_ Ned repeated to himself for at least the tenth time today. His instructions had been very clear and his whole household knew to never let her leave the tower by herself.

As he approached the king's solar, Eddard tried to chase the thoughts of his family's personal problems from his mind. There were more pressing matters to deal with for now; that was the reason he had asked for a private audience with Robert. His biggest concern of all regarded the realm's disastrous finances. _The kingdom is on the verge of bankruptcy. How can that be possible when… when…_? Ned trailed off, losing focus when his eyes fell over the dark shape of a very tall and broad man guarding the solar's door. _What is the Hound doing here?_ he wondered, tensing at once. Was Joffrey visiting his father?

His back leaned against the closed door, Sandor Clegane was looking at nothing in particular and sporting a bored scowl, his thick arms folded over his chest. As he noticed Ned, he straightened his back and a faint spark of surprise passed through his eyes, yet the moment lasted but a heartbeat and he quickly regained his usual unreadable expression.

"Come to see the king?" the Hound asked when they were near enough. He was gazing down at him with an air that bordered on arrogance and Ned felt his hands close into tight fists and his jaw set tightly.

That this man could have any sort of interest in his little girl disgusted him no end. _It's not his fault, _Ned reluctantly reminded himself. The Hound hadn't planned any of it either after all and had drunk the potion by accident, same as Sansa. However, thinking of one of Westeros' most feared warriors as a _victim_ was anything but natural to Eddard and he would certainly not be able to see it as such in the event that he took advantage of his young daughter's present weakened state. The simple idea that something so abhorrent could happen sent a cold shiver down Ned's spine and he breathed in deeply to calm himself. Naught of the sort would unfold, he would see to that.

"Yes. Could you please open the door for me?" he demanded dryly.

"Of course," the Hound grumbled after a moment of silence in a way that made it sound as if he had a say about whom Robert could or could not meet and hadn't been sure he should allow him in. Unhurriedly, he moved aside and tugged the heavy door open. "The Lord Hand is here, Your Grace," the man then announced flatly.

When Eddard was in, he looked around and was puzzled to find Robert sitting in an armchair alone with Jaime Lannister, who stood next to the window, impeccable in his shiny golden armour.

Ned glanced behind him at the shutting door before walking to his old friend. "Why is the Hound guarding you? Shouldn't he be with your son?"

"Hello, Ned," the king said gruffly. "Sit down with me and have a drink of ale," he proposed, nodding at an empty place by his side.

"I don't have time for that, Your Grace. I'm here but for a moment."

"That's a pity. You don't realise how dull it can be sometimes being the head of the kingdom. It's a very lonely place and I would have wished for some company today but I won't keep you from your work," he complained before taking a long gulp from his tankard. "Since you've asked though, I've decided to change the Hound's duties and keep him as my personal guard for the time being. Joffrey has Meryn to watch over him instead. I've figured leaving Sandor Clegane with my son until an antidote to the philtre has been found could be… _awkward_ considering that… ah… your daughter-"

"Yes, of course," Ned hurriedly cut him off, uneasiness flowing through him. As he said the words, his eyes darted to Jaime Lannister and he frowned at seeing the smirk the man was sporting. Did the Kingslayer know about the potion also? _Of course he does. Everyone does thanks to those gossipy footmen that were there when we performed our investigation_. "Your Grace, I came to talk to you about some very strange patterns I found in some of the realm's legal papers," Eddard began, eager to change subject. "I can't help but wonder if-"

"Oh, Ned! Don't bore me with that, will you? What do you think I have a small council for?" the king roared with obvious annoyance. "Tell me about Adelardus' progress instead."

At that, Ned sighed. He'd have preferred to handle his daughter's delicate situation by himself – it was a private family matter after all. Nevertheless, Robert was the king and as such, he had the right to interfere in any affair he wished. Resigned, the man was just about to open his mouth when his eyes were caught by Jaime Lannister, whose smirk had become even more evident. "Could we please be alone in that case, Your Grace?" Eddard demanded more sharply than he had intended while eyeing the Kingslayer with irritation.

"Alone? But we are, aren't we?" Robert exclaimed, brow furrowed with confusion. Then as if he had just realised they weren't, he jumped in surprise and turned in his armchair to glance at the Kingslayer. "Oh, you're talking about Jaime, aren't you?" he added a little too cheerfully to Eddard's taste. "Ned, you should know the Kingsguard have the king's confidence. You can speak freely."

Not convinced in the least, Eddard's face winkled in distaste. "As you say, Your Grace," he grunted before clearing his throat. "Well, I visited the pyromancer in his laboratory earlier this morning but he has not succeeded yet in finding a cure. He told me he was getting there but I doubt he was telling the truth."

"He will eventually. A man that can concoct such an incredible philtre surely has the means to create almost any potion imaginable. We only need to be patient," the king said with what sounded like both admiration and confidence in the pyromancer's skills.

It was easy for Robert to be patient, Ned reflected bitterly. It wasn't his daughter who was dreaming of the Hound just as they were speaking. Still, he kept his grousing to himself. "I truly hope you're right. Yet, I'll be honest and admit I do worry a lot, Your Grace. With your son's nameday tourney approaching, who's to say what opportunity the man might believe he could get? In a large crowd, it will be harder to keep track of Sansa. I've been thinking and perhaps I shouldn't allow her to attend. I know she'd be disappointed but-"

"_Not allow her_?" Robert growled, seemingly as confounded as displeased. "Ned, you can't be serious? There's no doubting the poor thing has been counting the days since the tourney was announced three moons ago. Besides, she's Joffrey's betrothed and is required to take part in his nameday celebrations. No, Ned, I won't permit you to forbid her to go. I assure you that your worries are in vain anyhow. I've talked to the Hound and you can rest assured he won't attempt anything. The man knows his place and is as obedient as the dogs of his sigil."

As Robert spoke, Eddard heard some sort of muffled snort and when he raised his stare, he saw that Jaime Lannister was looking away and he could've swore the man was biting at his lip to repress a snigger. Ned winced and glowered at him but nonetheless decided to ignore it.

"I hope you're right, Your Grace," he spat with barely hidden anger, feeling so very weary. "I truly do."

**Sansa**

"Let's go to the Godswood, Jeyne. I need a change of air. Father won't let me escape the tower by myself anymore," Sansa complained as she admired herself in the mirror.

Her long tresses had been braided in a very complicated hairstyle and she wore a pale silk blue and cream gown that complemented her colouring perfectly. She was beautiful indeed and she longed to be seen by the world… and especially _him_. In the morning, a lot of men usually practiced in the yard. Who was to say they wouldn't meet on their way? Of course, she had no intention of not following her lord father's behest but if they met by chance, it wouldn't be her fault, would it?

"I don't mind. Still, Sansa! You need to answer my questions!" Jeyne cried. "Are you truly in love with _the Hound_?"

For a moment, she had sounded almost like Arya as she said his name and Sansa was annoyed for it. "Will you stop harassing me? Just because you've heard a couple of maids gossiping doesn't make it true!" she lied. Sansa didn't like hiding anything from her best friend but she knew Jeyne wouldn't understand. After all, even Sansa herself wouldn't have been able to conceive that any sound maiden might possibly fall for a man as unsavoury as Sandor Clegane a couple of days ago. For now, her true feelings were best kept secret.

"Don't take it like that, Sansa! I do trust you, I swear it!" Jeyne hurriedly countered. Her words notwithstanding, the steward's daughter seemed dubious.

Sansa didn't push the matter further though and even apologised for her outburst and the two girls left her room a moment later. As they travelled through the corridor they met Arya. The younger girl was swirling and jumping, all the while kicking some invisible foe. There was no saying what she was up to but Sansa didn't care in the least to learn about it and only continued on her way. Shortly, they reached the stairs which were guarded by Jory.

"Going out, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

"Yes, Jeyne and I are going to the Godswood," she said, unable to look him in the eyes.

The young man nodded in approval. "Us Northerners need to keep our faith, especially here in the South," he stated, moving aside and opening the door for them.

"I agree with that. Thank you, Jory," Sansa answered, blushing at her hypocrisy. It wasn't that she didn't believe in the words he had said but…

"So, Sansa, it's all untrue?" Jeyne murmured enthusiastically from behind her as they went down the stairs.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, increasing her pace. She had hoped the matter had been closed in her chamber and that they wouldn't have to talk about her interest in the Hound anymore.

"The philtre!" the young commoner exclaimed, seemingly shocked that she could have forgotten their previous conversation so easily.

"Oh, that? Of course it's all untrue. Do you truly believe in magic potions?" Sansa demanded, in what she hoped was a condescending tone.

The other girl seemed to hesitate. "Well… no, I don't. Only, you've been acting so strangely for the last few days and after all that I've heard, I couldn't help wondering…"

"Of course, I understand," Sansa replied. "Still, don't believe the rumours, Jeyne," she whispered, feeling terribly soiled for the lies she promulgated.

They had reached the ground now and Jeyne sighed in relief while grasping Sansa's hand, stopping her in her flight. "Please forgive me if I've insisted. I know I shouldn't have doubted you, still it was hard not to with all the lies whispered in the kitchens." Then, after a short pause, the young commoner added more seriously, "And also, your Lord Father has expressly told me to watch over you, so I'm only being careful. You're not too mad, I hope?"

"No, of course not," Sansa breathed, feeling awful.

Yet Jeyne seemed delighted and as they resumed their walk and passed over the yard, she kept grinning as if she didn't have a care in the world. Sansa herself couldn't help her gaze from darting down but it found the place almost empty. The two girls continued on their way and soon they reached the long corridor that led to the Godswood. Sansa was disappointed about not having glimpsed Sandor Clegane, still she tried to hide it as best she could and forced a smile on her lips. _It's better this way,_ she decided. She had promised her lord father that she would stay away from him and she shouldn't have hoped to see him in the first place.

Just as she was harbouring those thoughts, Sansa felt some sort of tickling at the nape of her neck and she immediately turned around to look behind her, jumping in place when she saw what had unconsciously attracted her attention. From the other side of the alley, Sandor Clegane was approaching her. Even at the distances they were at, she knew for certain it was him and although she couldn't discern his face, by the hurried pace he had taken, the girl was almost certain he had noticed her also. For a brief instant, Sansa's mind was completely clouded by anxiety and her body stood petrified but she thankfully rapidly shook herself.

"Jeyne," she whispered frantically, seizing her friend by the arm and dragging her past the Godswood's threshold where the Hound couldn't see them. "Please! Listen to me. I lied! The philtre _is_ true and Sandor Clegane is coming. Please, be a friend and go somewhere else while I talk to him. Will you, _please_?" she implored, speaking so fast she was nearly out of breath when she finished.

Jeyne's eyes went wide. "Sansa! I don't understand-"

"It doesn't matter. Are you my friend?" the girl demanded more pathetically than she had intended.

"Yes, of course! You know that, but-"

"Then leave me so that I can meet the Hound by myself for a few minutes."

"But Sansa! Your lord father has clearly told me not to-"

"I know!" Sansa admitted desperately, throwing her head back. For a moment, she was left completely speechless and on the verge of tears. Jeyne was right of course; she couldn't disobey Father! Still, fleeing the Hound without giving him at least a word of explanation as to why she couldn't see him seemed just as wrong to her. "I need to tell Sandor Clegane I can't see him," Sansa explained to her friend, lowering her stare on her again. "Give me the time to do that, at least…"

Jeyne dithered for an eternal instant and Sansa couldn't stop her fist from tightening around her friend's arm as she waited. "All right," the girl finally conceded, clearly unsure she was making the right decision. "I'll do it for you, Sansa, but _please_ explain afterward and most of all, don't be long!"

"Oh thank you, Jeyne! I promise I won't," Sansa cried with relief, before pulling her inside.

Both girls entered the Godswood and shortly parted ways, Jeyne heading for some bushes on the side – looking behind her with worry a few times - while Sansa continued straight ahead.

Once she was alone, Sansa walked very slowly, certain every time she heard the wind blow in the leaves that Sandor Clegane was coming her way. Yet anytime she turned, no one was there and as the seconds passed, she was slowly beginning to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. Her hands clutched together and trembling, Sansa was growing teary when a sudden louder noise was heard. Immediately, she swirled around and gasped at seeing the Hound enter the Godswood. The man's stare fell on her in the same breath – his eyes growing wide for a second – but then he halted and began studying her from afar, his gaze lingering all over her body in a manner that seemed anything but chaste to Sansa.

With the dark, worn leather garb he wore, his long, black hair and facial burns, Sandor Clegane could easily have passed for the Stranger himself. The resemblance was intimidating to say the least; Sansa was even starting to wonder why she had been so eager to see him in the first place. _He still scares me as much as ever,_ Sansa realised, her stomach pulling into a tight knot. Still, her eyes were seemingly glued to his imposing shape, taking in every detail of his physique in utter fascination, from the impressive breadth of his shoulders to the shade of his rough skin.

For the space of a few heartbeats, it was as if a spell had been cast and time had been suspended but then, just as Sansa was about to truly believe it was so, the Hound smirked and began striding toward her. The girl flinched at the sight and took a step back, anxiety building in her so shockingly fast her breath got stuck in her throat. Thankfully, Sandor Clegane noticed her distress and abruptly stopped walking, leaving about two yards of space between them.

For a few very long seconds afterwards, both he and Sansa stayed still once more, examining each other with the same curious awe, although certainly not the same level of nervousness.

"Little bird," the man rasped, his voice cutting through the fresh air of the godswood, as sharp as the longsword he wore at his hip. "I've been hoping to see you."

_Little bird_. He had called her so when he had escorted her after the Hand's tourney on that seemingly faraway night. The moniker had seemed mean and derisive but now, it had lost all of its previous contemptuous connotations. She even liked it; _little bird_… There was something overly romantic about the name.

Taking her silence for a rebuff, Sandor Clegane stiffened and his face twisted into a scowl. "Would you rather I leave?"

"No! I… I've been wishing to see you also," Sansa cried without thinking. She regretted her words as soon as they left her lips, fearing that the avidity with which they had been spoken might give him false ideas about her intentions.

And indeed, it had, for the man's mouth pulled into a smirk. "Really?" he asked smugly, taking a step forward.

Eyes grown wide, Sansa retreated slightly from him. "No, my lord! Please! Stay away! We _can't_!"

"Can't what?" the Hound grunted, halting. The burned corner of his mouth twitched a couple of times, giving away his irritation.

Daunted by the shortness of his temper, Sansa hesitated for an instant. Sheltered as she had been all her life, she wasn't used to dealing with men of his sort and the roughness of his ways rendered her so very timid. "It's my lord father. He… he doesn't want me to… to _see you_…" she breathed, her face blushing at the implication.

Sandor Clegane narrowed his eyes at her. "And why's that?"

"Because… because it's _impossible_!" she let out a little too passionately. That wasn't good. Showing him the burning fervour that filled her heart was the last thing she should logically do if she didn't wish to encourage him.

"_Impossible_?" the Hound repeated mockingly before uttering a short, hoarse laugh. "Impossible _what_?"

_Why would he be mocking me? _Sansa wondered, feeling as if the floor had been pulled from under her she wrong? Were the gossips all false and the Hound did not share her newborn infatuation? The idea both mortified and pained her. While their love was doomed from the start and she hadn't had any intention of letting it blossom freely, Sansa still couldn't bear the thought that Sandor Clegane might not yearn for it as much as she did. Furthermore, she had just unwillingly revealed herself to him with her enthusiasm which was unquestionably humiliating if he was only to make fun of her for it. Fighting not to shed tears, the girl lowered her gaze to the ground but somehow, she nevertheless found the strength to clarify her meaning – perhaps in foolish hope that she had misread his response. "You… you and I…" she said in a whisper so small it barely competed with the sound of the wind.

Sandor Clegane snorted at that, evidently amused. She had clearly told him there would be no future between them and therefore, Sansa didn't have a single doubt anymore that he felt nothing for her. There was no other explanation for his attitude – after all, if the philtre had had any effect on him, he would assuredly have been dejected at learning the impossibility of any kind of relation between them. Losing the battle, the girl finally let tears well in her eyes, two of which ran down cheeks as hot as burning coal. A cool wind blew at that moment, brushing against her fiery face and drying its wetness and Sansa was thankful for the meagre solace the old gods were offering her.

"That's what your father says," the Hound's low, husky voice interrupted her inner self-pity, his shadow reaching her face. "Still, I don't give a buggering fuck about what's proper or expected of me."

His words sent shockwaves all over Sansa and she jerked her head up to look at him. As she did, the man crossed the last step that separated them and the girl backed off nervously, eyes wide as saucers. "What… what are you doing?" she asked, confused. She had apparently been wrong; he _did_ want her after all but that still didn't make it right. "Leave me please!" she pleaded when he did not answer. "I told you already that it was impossible! And besides, I'm promised to another and we could never! Never…" she trailed off when her back hit the trunk of a large tree.

"Little bird," Sandor Clegane whispered, seizing both her upper arms in his large hands. "You do want this also. No use denying it: I've seen it in your eyes. And don't fight it either or else… or else I'll _force it_ on you," he threatened, bringing his face close to hers and pulling her against him.

Terrified and exhilarated equally, Sansa shut her eyes and moved her head away but she otherwise didn't struggle against the hold he had on her. Anyhow, he was too strong and she could never win against him.

His body was as solid as iron against hers and so incredibly towering that their closeness was mostly frightening to her at that instant. _What will happen next_? the girl wondered, so flustered that she could barely calm her breathing and was growing dizzy.

"Careful, showing off that perfect white neck of yours, little bird," the Hound warned.

Sansa's eyes popped open at hearing his words, yet even before they could focus, the man's lips delicately landed on the skin of her neck, warming it with his soft breath. _No! This is not right! _she cried inwardly, outraged at her own weakness. Why wasn't she pushing him away? And why by the Maiden wasn't she making her unwillingness more obvious? There was naught appropriate about the caress of his mouth brushing against her throat... even though the burning trail it left over her skin was moreexquisite than anything she had ever experienced.

_I have to shake myself and put a stop to this,_ the voice of reason rang in her mind but just as it did, one of Sandor Clegane's hands cupped her cheek and gently turned her head until their faces were less than an inch from each other and even before she had a chance to process what was happening, his lips met hers, unexpectedly softly. _No!_ Sansa thought, squirming in his clutches.

Her resistance lasted but a split-second. Erelong, her limbs softened and her lips surrendered, becoming supple under his. While Sansa was horrified at the small amount of willpower she had, she neither had the energy to resist him nor the strength to fight the overpowering fluttering in her belly. Her knees were getting weak, so much so that she feared they might give out from under her. She felt as if she was at the edge of a precipice and that the sole anchor keeping her from falling into the emptiness below was the Hound's brawny body and so she increasingly leaned into him, trembling in both fright and rapture.

Soon, Sandor Clegane's mouth became hungrier and started nibbling at her lips, his fingers slipping to the back of her head, cradling it so very carefully. Complying, Sansa instinctively opened her mouth and moaned at feeling his tongue enter, the silkiness of the touch astounding her and slipping all coherent thoughts out of her mind. She could hardly remember why she had wished for the Hound to leave her alone anymore and had even almost forgotten the meanings of the words 'seemly' and 'proper'. Something so perfect and good couldn't really be wrong. The whole world had more chance of mistaking than of that being the case.

Never before had Sansa kissed and not in a million years would she have envisioned her first time to be anything like what she was currently experiencing. In her daydreams, the valorous knights she had gifted her lips to had always merely brushed their pursed mouth to hers. Their kisses had been restrained, short, as dry as paper, or in other words _boringly clean_. Sandor Clegane on the other hand, his were far from innocent, much more intimate and even somewhat… _indecent_.

Her reservations now naught more than a faraway memory, Sansa was keenly joining him in his depraved caress, sliding her tongue against his and delighting in the wonderful prickle it elicited in her. Of their own accord, her hands slid over the Hound's torso to settle over his chest, very lightly. Encouraged by the gesture, the man lowered his hands to her waist and yanked her even closer, the abrupt movement waking the girl from the dreamlike state she had been in.

As it often is for those who awake from too sweet a dream, embarrassment assailed Sansa from the moment she realised what she had been up to. "We shouldn't!" she breathed, turning her head aside and pushing her lithe hands against the man's torso in a vain attempt to free herself.

Grunting in displeasure, Sandor Clegane stilled her with hands as sturdy as steel. "Why?" he demanded, sounding irked but also, genuinely afflicted.

"I'm the Hand's daughter!" was her meek answer. Even to herself, the excuse sounded exceedingly unconvincing.

"You don't want this?" the Hound hissed between his teeth, cocking his head to the side very stiffly.

The question was too bold, too direct. "I… I…"

"Say it as it is, little bird," he spat, digging his fingers into her waist. Sansa could almost smell frustration oozing from his skin and his eyes glared down at her, dark with resentment.

Unable to withstand his stare, the girl lowered her face to gaze at her hands over his chest instead. "It's not that…" she admitted against her better judgment. The passion-filled fog that had previously blinded her having partly dissipated, she was now starting to regret how easily she had surrendered. Their love would only bring trouble to the both of them and she should have used the opportunity his doubts offered to pretend she indeed _didn't want this_, as he had just put it. Yet, Sansa couldn't find it in her to lie to him. "I need to go back to my room," she said in a shivering whisper, hoping that a change of subject might be enough to end the nerve-racking moment.

The Hound was breathing heavily but her excuse seemed to quell the bourgeoning wrath she had sensed in him. One of his hands moved from her waist to her jaw and raised her face to make her to look at him. "But you'll see me again, won't you?" he asked in that gravelly voice he had. He sounded sure of himself but there was some sort of pleading hint in his tone that nearly broke her heart.

_It's impossible,_ Sansa reminded herself, biting at her lip. She couldn't agree to something so unseemly. How could she, when she was betrothed to the king's son and of far higher birth than him? Their association was simply inconceivable!

Still, while her mind thought one thing, her heart compelled her to do another and she heard herself answer the one thing she should never have. "Yes… Yes, I promise it. I'll find a way to meet you."

At that, Sandor Clegane's eyes sparkled and he once more pressed his lips to hers. Sansa briefly melted in his arms but she shortly pushed her hands against his chest. "I need to go. Please, let me," she implored. As much as his kisses were intoxicating, guilt at having disregarded her lord father's very clear directions was now starting to arise in the back of her head and it filled Sansa with a sudden and overwhelming dread.

"All right," the Hound reluctantly conceded, slightly loosening his hold on her. "But when? When will I see you again?"

The urgency of the question and especially its practical aspect only added to the girl's building awareness that she had gotten herself into something much more risky and dangerous than she had ever done in all her life. She was engulfing herself in a mess she would surely never manage to extricate herself from unsoiled if she didn't act immediately. For a heartbeat or two, she was completely lost – vacillating between two completely opposite answers - but then, she went for the only truly conceivable one. "Soon… Still, I can't say when exactly."

"_Soon_," Sandor Clegane repeated, obviously displeased by the vagueness of her response. Exhaling loudly, the man's face pulled into a scowl, his back becoming taut.

Sansa had not expected for him to react so poorly and his disappointment had the same effect on her as a whip cracking at her face. "Please be understanding!" she hurried to add, eager to be in his good graces again. "It's hard to predict when all my movements are watched so closely by my father. I will come here – to the godswood - as often as I can. You'll be able to find me then…"

For a moment, she was afraid the Hound would complain again, however he sighed, his lips curling into a faint, wry smile. "I guess this will have to do," he rasped without much enthusiasm. "All right then. From now on, I'll be coming to the godswood as often as if I were a bloody Northerner looking for a favour from his gods. Still, little bird, I hope that I'll be seeing you more frequently than any man does those bastards."

"You will," Sansa heard herself say even before she had a chance to think it over. She had never been so much as half as unreasonable as she had been since entering the godswood but she tried to chase the idea away for now. _I'll worry about it later._

Growling in satisfaction, Sandor Clegane tightened the circle of his fingers around her waist and pressed her against him. "Now, do I get one last sweet kiss before I leave?" he whispered longingly against her lips.

Sansa couldn't refuse him. She was far too bewitched to resist but at the same time, too intimidated by his commanding presence to refuse. Submissively, she craned her neck and opened her lips very slightly. They kissed but thankfully, the Hound himself promptly left her mouth.

"I'm going first. Stay here a while longer, or else anyone seeing us leave together might come to the wrong conclusion… or the right, depending," he scoffed before striding away from her as abruptly as a gust of wind.

Sansa watched him as he went away and a moment later she was the sole person in the godswood, feeling so lonesome her core ached.

_We kissed, _she thought touching her lips with delicate fingers, totally bewildered. How had she ever let that happen? Sansa had never disobeyed Father before and the idea that she just had to an extent that surpassed by far even Arya's worst misbehaviour distressed her no end. At the same time, there was no way she regretted the most intense moment of her existence. If she had believed she loved Sandor Clegane throughout the past days, it had been but an illusion for her feelings for him were now painfully stronger, as gigantic as the sky above her head.

"Sansa!" a small voice came from the bushes.

The sound taking her by surprise, Sansa jumped and turned around to see Jeyne running her way. Her eyes grew wide; she had somehow completely forgotten that she wasn't truly alone.

"You kissed the Hound! You let the Hound kiss you!" Jeyne was crying out, apparently barely believing her own words.

"Jeyne! You spied on us?" Sansa answered, as outraged as she was abashed. "How could you?"

"No Sansa! How could _you_? It's you who kissed him!" the young commoner retorted, sounding madder than she had ever seen her. "I was told by your lord father to watch over you. He gave me very specific instructions to never leave you alone when we go out of the tower and most of all, to never – _ever_! – permit you to have any contact with the Hound and _I failed_!" she almost screamed in a mix of torment and horror.

Rendered speechless by her friend's reaction, Sansa stared at her dumbly, feeling suddenly extremely remorseful not to have considered the risks she had been taking on her behalf and the trouble she might now be in by her actions.

"You lied to me! You promised me naught would happen and that you would only tell him you couldn't see him but you didn't, did you?" Jeyne continued, her hands fisted into tight balls over her hips.

She was right of course; Sansa hadn't kept her promise and yet looking back, she wasn't at all certain she might possibly have succeeded even if she had tried twice as hard.

"Jeyne, please! You don't understand! I-"

"I don't _understand_? How can that be when I saw you smooching him like he was some handsome knight? I'm not stupid you know!"

"Yes, of course! And I'm not denying what I did either but please, listen to me!" Sansa cried, grabbing her friend by the sleeves and clutching at them desperately. "You _can't_ denounce us! I love him like I've never loved anyone before in my life. If you do it, I don't know what I will do…"

"But Sansa, what about Joffrey?"

"I don't love him!" Sansa exclaimed, offended at herself for having ever believed she did.

"And yet not only a sennight ago you were telling me about the undying passion you had for him!"

"I didn't know then what I know now! Believe me Jeyne, what I feel for Sandor Clegane is stronger than the largest and most violent storms that sweep the seas of the world."

"Sansa! He's _hideous_!" the girl pointed out in disgust. "Have you not looked upon his face?"

"The Hound is not ugly to me. Not anymore," Sansa replied more dreamily than she had intended.

Eying her with a mix of bewilderment and concern, Jeyne relaxed a bit at that. "It's the philtre, isn't?"

Sansa sighed. "I think it is. But I don't care. I love him now and wouldn't wish it any other way. You need to help me, Jeyne."

"But your lord father has told me to-"

"I know! Still, who are you friends with? Me or him?"

Undoubtedly sensing where she was going with this, Jeyne wavered for a second or two. "With you, of course…" she grudgingly admitted.

"Then you should help me!" Sansa asserted in a voice that cruelly lacked assurance.

Exceedingly uneasy, the other girl shifted uncomfortably. "I would but-"

"But you don't value our friendship enough for that?" Sansa asked, instantly loathing herself for using such a base card. Yet what other choice did she have?

"I do value our friendship, Sansa!" Jeyne hastily insisted, rising to the bait. "Only I… I-"

"Please, Jeyne. Please!" Sansa repeated while taking her friend's hands in hers, tears pearling at the corners of her eyes.

Obviously torn, Jeyne was anxiously gazing around her as if she hoped someone would come to her rescue. When no one did, she exhaled and let her head fall down in defeat. "All right, Sansa. I won't tell," she whispered in something not far from a lament.

"Oh thank you, Jeyne!" Sansa cried in utter alleviation, kissing her cheek. "You truly are a friend!"

"Still, Sansa," the other girl said, raising severe eyes to her. "You need to promise me you won't see him again."

Sansa had not anticipated the demand _at all_ and her heart dropped from the moment she heard it. _Not see him again?_ she echoed inwardly, panic rising in her. How could she hold to such an impossible request? She loved him! And the Hound loved her too! They couldn't be parted! Besides, she had already given him her word that she would do everything in her power to meet him again. She couldn't break yet another promise! Most of all though, after having felt Sandor Clegane's muscular body against hers, his large hands circling her waist and kissed his demanding lips, she knew for certain that they were meant for each other. If they had both drunk the pyromancer's love-philtre, it was because the gods had willed it so and no one – not even Father or the king himself – could argue or fight against the gods' will.

Still, while Sansa was convinced of that, she easily could guess Jeyne would probably disagree with her conclusion. She really didn't want to lie again but there was obviously no way she could tell her friend the truth at once. It would need to come one drop at a time and the best course of action for now was to let her believe what had taken place today would never happen again. "Of course, Jeyne," Sansa murmured, looking away and feeling her cheeks flush red from the wave of shame that instantly afflicted her.

The other girl didn't seem to realise the falseness of the words, for she sighed in relief. "It's all for the best, Sansa. I can understand that this potion has some potent effect on you but as soon as a cure to your affliction is found, you'll be as horrified as anyone else at the thought of kissing the Hound." Then, smiling kindly, Jeyne added reassuringly, "but I won't tell anyone it has ever happened so don't you worry about it."

_Worry about it, _Sansa repeated derisively in her mind. The only _worry_ she had at the moment was that anyone might ever find a remedy to the wonderful love she felt.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi everyone!_

_Here's a new chapter which one I hope you'll all enjoy. If you do, please do comment. Without feedbacks, I'm left in the dark and therefore, it's really hard for me to know if I'm doing something right and achieving my goal of entertaining you. :)_

_I did receive really nice comments from a number of people since starting this story though and to you all, I'm saying a BIG thank you! You don't know how much it means to me! :D_

**Sandor**

A couple of squires were fixing Sandor's armour onto him in the tent he shared with a few of the most important men-at-arms of the king. The lads were scared out of their wits to approach him– as usual – but the man didn't waste a moment of his time on teasing them as he often liked to do. No, his mind was far too absorbed by the little bird – Sansa – who he would almost certainly get to see very soon. Her sweet lips against his, her soft body at his mercy… the prospect was mouth-watering to say the least. Lately, he seemingly couldn't stop himself from daydreaming every bloody second of his damned life about how fucking good she would feel in his arms. It was more than a little overwhelming for an uncaring bastard such as he had always been - especially since they had spent less than an hour altogether by each other's side since the philtre. Somehow, it was as if in the blink of an eye, the girl's presence had grown as important to Sandor as the air he breathed and therefore, he longed to be with her in a visceral manner that defied all logic and didn't have anything to do with the more accustomed straightforward desire he had felt for other females in the past.

"Not so buggering tight! I still need to breathe, don't I?" Sandor hissed at the squires as they buckled one of his breastplate's straps in the wrong hole. He had forgotten about them, so taken by his reflections.

"Sorry, ser!" one of them croaked, loosening the strap with trembling hands.

"I'm no fucking _ser_!" Sandor snarled, pointing his finger at the lad's face. Notwithstanding his distaste at being called as such, he let it go as easily as that and only grunted a few curses while waving for them to continue. He had a far more interesting preoccupation at the moment than making green boys shit in their breeches.

Aye, the little bird. She had told him she would find a way to wander through the tents and rejoin him today. The girl was watched very closely – that was true – still it obviously wasn't nearly enough since the two of them had managed to evade the weak obstacles the Lord Hand believed he had placed between them twice already. It hadn't been very difficult either since that little mousy commoner friend Sansa had could be used as a cover for their secret meetings in the godswood. While it was evident the latter resented her involvement, she still did as she was bid and allowed them to spend some time alone.

Sandor would never be thankful to a servant for doing her job and listening to her lady, yet there was no denying they depended on the girl's good will. Whether he found the notion more worrying or infuriating was still a mystery to him, however resolving it wouldn't change the bloody facts. They _did_ need her help. Indeed, as the little bird wasn't permitted to cross the Tower of the Hand's threshold by herself, an accomplice among her household members was essential if they wished her to get out of the damned place once in a while.

Relying upon anyone wasn't something Sandor enjoyed in the least though. The mere thought of it made him grind his teeth and scratch his neck in annoyance, still the prospect of being parted from Sansa for too long appealed to him even less. Finding a way to secure her friend's loyalty was thereby a priority; friendship wasn't something anyone should count on, after all. Who was to say that the little commoner wouldn't betray them the moment she saw some advantage to it? Sandor needed to think of an incentive that would bind her to their cause and soon. Threatening her had been his first idea but he had quickly gathered doing so would most likely lead to catastrophe. No, the best strategy would be to bribe her, perhaps by buying her some of those useless trinkets women loved so much. Would that be enough though?

After their first encounter in the godswood, Sandor had thirsted for the little bird's lithe body against his so fucking strongly that he had been ready to take the Tower of the Hand by storm – no matter if it had meant his buggering lifeblood. It hadn't come to that thankfully. Just as he was growing as dangerously restless as a rabid dog kept in a cage for weeks, Sansa had been in the godswood at one of his all too frequent visits to the deserted place.

Dressed in an apple-green gown with white lace artfully stitched here and there, the little bird had been kneeling before a tree, praying for a purpose known solely by her. She had been breathtaking in the afternoon light - perfect in every sense of the buggering word, even though her long red locks were braided in one of those ridiculous hairstyles all the presumptuous ladies of the court believed to be the height of taste.

As Sandor had approached, the little bird had turned her beautiful pale face toward him and parted her luscious lips to utter a gasp of surprise. There was no denying she was still scared of him. He could smell her fear even from where he was, see it shine in the depths of her blue eyes, yet ever since the potion, Sandor could also sense the curiosity he triggered in her and how irresistibly attracted she was to him.

The idea that a maiden of her quality and birth could be _attracted_ to his likes was laughable of course. Without the love-philtre, there was no doubting she would never in a million years have felt anything but disgust toward him. Still, Sandor couldn't have cared less. Aye, her interest in him had been caused _artificially_ but where the fuck was the problem in that? After all, the only buggering detail that should ever matter in any affair – whatever the scale - was its bloody end result and given the one he was getting here, Sandor would've needed to be either a bugger or a halfwit to complain.

"Little bird, you're finally here," he had rasped when he was near enough, his gaze lingering all over her. "I was starting to think you'd tricked me and would never show up."

Still on the floor with her skirts spread around her, Sansa had flinched, her eyes grown wide. "Why would I do something so awful?" she had breathed so very softly, seemingly genuinely horrified at the proposition.

Sandor had uttered a short laugh at that, delighted by her fetching naivety and incomparable sweetness. Her cheeks colouring a pretty shade of pink, the little bird had stood up then and the man had noticed for the first time that her servant friend was there also, kneeling by her side. When his gaze had fallen on her, the young commoner had jumped and averted her stare uneasily but Sandor had had time enough to read the distaste in her eyes. The man had snorted at that. As if he gave a single shit about what a plain little servant thought of him.

"Jeyne, could you please leave us?" the little bird had demanded more politely than was necessary.

Her friend had eyed her with a pleading expression on her face - as if she hoped she would change her mind and send Sandor away instead - but then when naught of the sort happened, she had turned around and scurried away.

The man had followed her with his gaze, grunting in satisfaction once she had vanished into the bushes. "You know I've been coming here as often as a fucking devout," he had muttered, a smirk on his lips, before taking a few steps toward Sansa.

"Oh, you have," she had whispered in astonishment, as if she was taken aback by his statement. That was absurd. What man wouldn't do all he could to get near such a striking creature?

After that, it had been a question of seconds before Sandor grabbed her by the waist, kissed her throat and began devouring her lips with all the hunger in the world. The girl had squirmed slightly at first but he had easily stilled her with relentless hands and gentle words and before long, she had been soft and purring in his arms. There was no way Sandor knew for how long they kissed afterwards but when at one point they had grown too breathless to continue, they parted and exchanged a few words for a time, their bodies flush and his arms around her. It was a real mercy he had had the quick wits to tell her about his tent's location at the upcoming tourney during that pause. The little bird had smiled and promised that she would find him. Shortly thereafter, they had resumed kissing with even more heat than previously, yet just as Sandor was getting where he truly longed to get and caressed the delicious curve that led to her sweet teats, Sansa had fled from his grasp - looking terrified - and told him as she hurried to the door that she would be missed soon if she didn't get back to the Hand's Tower _immediately_.

Too bad she always had to go back to her nest. There would never be anything easy with her it seemed. The damned girl would resist him every step of the way until he finally got all he yearned for from her – if the glorious day ever happened at all. The prize was worth the battle though and Sandor would give all he had in him even if it meant he would only ever get a tenth of what she had to offer. He had no other fucking choice as it was anyway; he wanted her far too much to forget about her and truly focus his attention on anything else.

And so here he was, in his shared tent with two stupid squires, dreaming of the Hand's daughter like some lovesick fool. _A lovesick fool,_ Sandor sneered. Only a fortnight ago, he'd never have believed he might one day come to think of himself as such.

"It's all done, se… ah…" one of the squires meekly started to announce.

"No need for titles with me, boy," Sandor rasped, rising so fast the lad nearly lost his balance.

Moving away, the man went out of the tent and began walking across the field. He had told Sansa where his quarters would approximately be and for that reason, he didn't wish to go too far. Still, as the glade was quickly turning into some sort of buggering carnival, finding a place where he could meet her unseen was crucial. It wasn't evident though with all those knights, squires, children, couples of all ages and merchants trying to sell their baubles seemingly filling every single yard of the place. Even moving around at a regular pace was rapidly becoming impossible. Still, Sandor didn't have any other option but to continue searching and thus he kept on strolling about, his mood darkening with every step he took.

_Bugger that! I won't find any fucking secret sanctuary in this bloody circus!_ he raged to himself after a few minutes of sweeping his gaze over the increasingly dense press of people. There was no use trying to deny it; he'd need to meet the little bird in the open with all the associated dangers. The idea instantly sent his blood boiling. Cursing under his breath, Sandor halted as soon as the realisation hit him, the abruptness of the movement surprising the two youngsters that had been walking behind him, both of whom crashed into his back. Sandor barely felt them and only had time to glimpse their terrified expressions before they fled as fast as if they had come face to face with the Stranger himself. _Cowards,_ the man thought with a mix of contempt and disgust while glaring at every passer-by he saw but then just as he had lost all hope, he caught sight of what he had had been looking for.

At some distance before him, three tents stood in a tight circle and although they weren't directly touching, they were near enough that people walking by wouldn't notice if a couple in need of privacy stood at their centre. _At least, hopefully,_ Sandor thought once he was near enough to better inspect the setting. It wasn't great, of course, but it was a far cry better than kissing Sansa before hundreds of witnesses - or even worse, not to kiss her at all.

Mildly satisfied, Sandor turned his back to the tents and began waiting, arms folded over his chest while distractedly watching the crowd that surrounded him. Nearby, a group of children were following the acrobatic feats of a man who juggled while walking in a circle on a pair of stilts with avid eyes. Behind them, a few squires were courting two plump commoner girls, who were giggling while eating candied apples. By their side, an old woman was reading the lines of a young noblewoman's hand, a knight waiting by their sides, all smiles. What bullshit was the hag feeding them? That they'd become rich? That he'd win a title and lands? That they'd soon wed and have a child? The latter was more likely of course, still Sandor couldn't help but feel contempt for both the couple and the old seer – oh, and all the rest of the pathetic flock that surrounded them while he was at it. There was only one person he cared about and she wasn't here for now. _Where is she?_ he wondered, suddenly impatient. Had the little bird changed her mind and decided she's rather be a _good girl_ and listen to her damned father after all? Or perhaps was she unable to leave the king's box? There was no use in torturing himself over these questions – she would come or she wouldn't, no matter what he did - and therefore, Sandor tried to empty his mind of any thoughts but his attempt wasn't met with much success.

A golden-skinned couple with dark hair, probably from Dorne, was swirling together in a licentious dance that made the fascinated maidens of their audience blush and wiggle uncomfortably when Sandor's attention suddenly got attracted elsewhere.

"My lord," a soft voice discreetly called.

The sound was barely more than a whisper in the din but Sandor heard it well enough. His pulse increasing slightly, he jerked his head around to see the little bird with her servant friend standing a few yards from him and pretending to watch the dancers. At the sight, the man's mouth almost pulled into a smile, however he thankfully put a stop to that before it had a chance of happening. No one needed to note how glad he was to see Sansa or even that he had spotted her at all. Gazing away with a scowl on his face, he nonchalantly nodded toward the passage between the tents, hoping that his brief loss of composure hadn't been caught by anyone.

The two girls understood his meaning and furtively glanced behind them, exchanging a few hushed words before they both walked to the tents and disappeared into their centre. As they did, Sandor scanned the crowd to make sure no one was peering their way and once he was confident, he followed in their steps.

It wasn't such a good hiding place, the man had to admit once he had entered. He could glimpse what was going on outside standing in its middle and it was a given anyone curious enough would easily guess something was up between the tents. Nevertheless, what other buggering options did he have? None, of course.

Sighing in annoyance at his lack of resources, Sandor lowered his stare onto Sansa, his concern dissolving in an eye blink when he saw the vision that awaited him. Under the sunbeams, the little bird was simply stunning. She looked the stuff the bloody songs were made of, so fucking beautiful she didn't even seem real. Her loose hair shone a vibrant shade of red and her pale skin glowed as if it was carved from ivory and the man suddenly wished he could admire her wholly, with no clothes obstructing the way.

Shifting nervously, the little bird was gazing at him so very shyly, still her big blue eyes were sparkling with undeniable excitement. Sandor felt his lips curl into a wicked half-grin. Their minutes together were so few; would she mind if he seized her by the waist and kissed her right away? _There's only one way to find out,_ he mused, taking a step forward, yet just as he was about to execute his plan, Sandor remembered, wincing, that her little friend was there by her side. That one was so bloody easy to forget about. Obviously both terrified and ill-at-ease, she was staring at her feet, probably wishing she could turn into mist. _You and I both, girl._

Looking at them, it was hard to believe the two girls were of an age. Albeit Sansa was still very young and most likely not done growing, she nevertheless was obviously not a child anymore, unlike her skinny and awkward looking friend - any man with enough strength to lift it up could see that, clear as day. There was no doubting the plain little servant was envious of Sansa's many _charms_. What girl wouldn't be, after all, when condemned to always pass for the ugly one? No male would ever give her any mind as long as she was by the little bird's side - that was fucking certain.

"You, girl," Sandor rasped, poking at the servant girl's shoulder.

At that, she flinched and raised fearful eyes to him. "Y… yes?"

"Leave us, will you? You're not needed here," Sandor spat. The girl didn't argue and nodded anxiously but just as she was turning around to leave, the man called her back. "Wait," he said, remembering his earlier reflections. From his pouch, he fished out a silver stag and flipped it in her direction. The girl barely managed to catch it in flight. "Take that and go buy yourself some candies, a mug of mulled wine or whatever else you like; I don't bloody care. All I ask is that you stay out of the view of anyone that might know you're supposed to be with Sansa. Perhaps you could go hide in the tent of one of those seers and ask for your future to be foretold. You females like paying to hear the lies of those thieves, am I right? I've seen it done again and again and you're surely no different."

"Y… yes, my lord," the girl answered, staring at the stag in her hand with disbelieving eyes.

She had never owned so much in all her life and it showed. _Good_, Sandor thought contentedly. As he had surmised earlier, using the little servant's greed was indeed the right strategy. He could afford to give her a stag every now and then if it meant she would keep her mouth shut in hope of more.

"Thank you," she said, glancing diffidently at Sandor when she finally managed to take her eyes from her silver stag.

"No need for that, just go," Sandor urged her, laying a hand on her shoulder and pushing her away.

"Thank you so much, Jeyne!" the little bird exclaimed. "Please, meet me here in about an hour."

"Yes, Sansa," the servant girl replied as she dropped out of Sandor's sight.

_Finally_, he thought, returning his gaze to the little bird. He couldn't wait to kiss her at last.

"Are you going to joust today?" she asked before he could make his move.

"Why do you think I have my armour on?" Sandor replied, his lips pulling into a mocking smirk.

"Oh," Sansa whispered, slightly taken aback. "It's true, I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't," he rasped, seizing her waist with both hands. She was so slim it fitted in the circle of his fingers. "Little bird, I've been missing you so buggering much," the man muttered, yanking her against him and burying his face in her hair. When had he become so damned pathetic as to say things like that? _The hells with that. I don't bloody care._

The girl squeaked and tensed for a moment but she quickly became tender in his clutches and exhaled softly. "I… I did too," she said, hesitant and shy. _So bloody sweet._

Her scent was that of a fresh spring, purer than anything he'd ever smelled. "Mmmm," Sandor breathed, slipping his mouth against her neck and kissing the perfect whiteness he found there. His hand moved upward to cup one of her cheeks while his lips trailed over the other until they got to her mouth and began nibbling at its delectable plumpness. The girl didn't resist and even opened her lips for him, allowing their tongues to meet, softly at first, more hungrily as it went on.

No matter how exhilarating the moment, Sandor shortly remembered where they were and withdrew his mouth from hers. "Little bird, we need get as far from the centre as we can," he said, pushing her against the rough cloth of the nearest tent and using the pretext to press himself even more tightly against her.

"Of course," she murmured, anxiously glancing around them as if she was only just growing conscious of where they were.

The poor little thing. She had probably dreamed of being dragged to more enchanting places by her fancied suitors before realising she'd get a dog instead. Oh well, the girl still seemed willing enough, no matter how inappropriate the setting and the man and thus, there was no reason to deprive himself of tasting her lips again.

Sandor was about to do just that when he was suddenly stopped by a pair of delicate hands pushing against his breastplate. Of course, he could've easily shoved them off by sheer force, yet the girl still needed to believe she had a choice where they were concerned.

"Wait. I… I have something for you," she said when he met her gaze.

Fixing her with questioning eyes, Sandor kept silent and waited for her to continue.

The little bird's cheeks had coloured a deep shade of pink and she seemed to hesitate for a moment but then, she backed away from him as much as she could with the space she had left, her body pushing into the coarse fabric of the tent as she untied a long ribbon from her wrist. "I would really love you to… to carry my favour for the tourney today," she whispered, eyes downcast and lips curled into a timid smile.

_A favour?_ Sandor had never had any of those, never dreamed to and hadn't cared. He was no pretty knight after all but a ruthless killer… yet from Sansa, the prospect was temping, all too tempting. And there was no bloody reason he should refuse her either.

"Of course I'll fight for you, little bird," he told her lowly, narrowing his eyes at her. "And I'll think of you as I send those bastards onto the dusty ground - where they belong."

As he said the words, Sansa raised her gaze to him, eyes gleaming with happiness. She seemed truly relieved, as if she had feared he would refuse. "You will?" she asked, apparently barely believing it.

"Aye, little bird, I will but you need to put your ribbon somewhere it won't be seen by anyone." Sandor paused to think. "Under my pauldron. Here," he instructed, pushing the steel piece away so that she could access his upper arm.

Glowing with joy, Sansa brought her dainty fingers to the space he offered her and hurriedly began to fasten the fine pink piece of silk around his arm. _Pink_, Sandor thought, a sneer uncontrollably reaching his mouth. That was no colour meant to go on a man like him. Yet, it was the same shade her cheeks could so easily take and the same hue as her lips... Somehow, the notion was almost stirring.

"It's not too tight?" the little bird asked, looking at him.

Sandor snorted at that. "How could it ever be _too tight_?" he murmured, grasping a tendril of her hair and rolling it between his fingers. It was so silky to the touch. "I like your hair like that."

"You do?" she asked, seemingly delighted. "I've left it loose for you. You told me you preferred it like that."

"Aye. No need for artifice with you. You're too beautiful for that; natural suits you best."

"Thank you, my lord," the little bird breathed, her grin broader than he had ever seen it.

"None of that with me: I'm only relating the truth. And besides, I'm no lord. Especially not to _you_."

As if in awe, the little bird's mouth opened very slightly and the man read it as a sign her lips were begging to be kissed. It was more an order really, and therefore he brought his face near hers, ready to feed on her delicious skin –

"What the _hells_ is going on here?" a voice came from behind them.

Sandor jerked his head around, his whole body stiffening in less than a heartbeat. Then, even before he had a chance of glimpsing the intruder, he heard a snigger he knew all too well. _Fucking Kingslayer, _he cursed, feeling his mouth twitch. The haughty bastard was slowly walking toward them, a complacent smile on his handsome face.

"You know what, Sandor? I had somehow already guessed it might be you," Jaime Lannister declared, halting only a step from them. "Instinct probably… or perhaps, the grating sound of your voice which I could hear from my seat, it's hard to say," he added, his smile evolving into a wide grin.

The little bird's face had turned almost as red as her hair and Sandor could feel her shivering against him. The awareness of how scared she was only added to his bourgeoning anger but he kept still and waited to see what the Kingslayer wanted.

The bugger was either oblivious to the reactions he was eliciting or more likely, enjoying every second of it for he continued his vain monologue at the same unbearably slow pace. "I was peacefully resting in my tent, trying to gather my strength for the joust, but kept being disturbed by movements I could very clearly see against the fabric of one of its walls," he recounted, feigning outrage. "Understand me, I _had_ to go find out what was the matter." After that, Jaime grinned and resumed laughing. "You naughty Hound. Haven't you any better place to bring your lady love to?"

"Go fuck yourself, Kingslayer," Sandor snarled.

"Careful with Lady Sansa's pure ears! She's too fine a lady to hear such vile words," Jaime scolded him with a smirk.

Sandor didn't share his amusement in the least. He turned from Sansa to face the Kingslayer completely and took a step toward him. "Listen, you bugger. I don't have time to waste so _spit it out_. What the _fuck_ do you want from me?"

Jaime retreated slightly from him and feigned surprise. "Nothing, of course!" he exclaimed but then, he seemed to change his mind. "Although, I do have an offer for you if you'd like. You and Lady Sansa really need to find some more suitable place to… to get to _know_ each other. I offer you my tent."

Sandor rolled his eyes. "Forget it," he hissed between his teeth.

"But why? I'm completely rested now and as good as new. I'm not sharing my tent with anyone and it would be a pity if no one took advantage of the place. I'll tell my squires not to go in and no one will know you're there but me."

"Why should I trust you?" Sandor rasped, studying the other man's expression and trying to read any deception.

"Why shouldn't you? Did I ever stab you in the back before?"

Sandor opened his mouth to speak but as much as he wished he could, finding any occasion the Kingslayer had betrayed his trust proved impossible.

"Come, Sandor. Be sensible. You'll be much more comfortable in there."

For an instant, Sandor wavered. He glanced behind him to see Sansa looking at him, totally petrified. _She doesn't like the idea_, he mused. Yet, Jaime had already caught them and could very well denounce them as it was already. And besides, the bastard did have a point…

"All right then, Kingslayer. I don't know what you have to gain in this but I'll take your offer anyhow. You had better not play me though and tell anyone or else, I'll beat you up so badly, you'll never get to fuck again."

"No need for threatening me. You're really not being very fair, are you? Oh well. Follow me," the man said, shaking his head and waving for him to follow.

At that, Sandor gazed back at the little bird and gently grabbed her by the upper arm. "Come."

The poor girl looked terrified but Sandor nonetheless brought her in front on him. He'd have time enough to reassure her once they were alone.

An instant later, they had exited their little hiding place but Sandor kept Sansa well hidden before him and pushed her into the tent's entrance, which Jaime had already opened for them. Once she was in, he laid eyes on the Kingslayer. "No one will enter while we're in there," he commanded more than he asked, eying the man menacingly.

"I give you my word. On my honour," Jaime said, his right hand settled over his heart.

Sandor snorted. "For what it's worth."

"Oh, you're really misjudging me here," Jaime sighed, sounding genuinely irked. The moment lasted but a split second though, for he quickly regained his usual smirk. "Have fun, Sandor," he said, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Although, try to leave her a maiden at least, all right?"

Sending him one last glare, Sandor bent slightly and entered the dimness of the tent, the door slapping shut behind him.


End file.
